Chapter 1 - Naledi

# Chapter 1: Naledi

It's no secret my dating life is a dumpster fire. So why I'm surprised that yet another oh-so-promising date has gone so far south I can see Antarctica is something I should really evaluate. As soon as I escape this horror show of a dinner, I will.

Or, well, maybe I'll do it tomorrow.

Tonight, I just want my favourite comfy Garfield pyjama pants, the tub of caramel chocolate cheesecake ice cream that's waiting in my freezer, and a trashy reality TV show to help numb the pain of chronic disappointment that is my love life.

If I have to suffer through one more date where the manchild does ninety-eight percent of the talking about how great he is and asks exactly zero questions about me, I'm going to stab my eyes out with my steak knife. I sure as hell don't need it for the steak I wasn't allowed to order since my date requested a salad on my behalf.

Bongani the bastard, everybody.

I think it's time to call off the search for Mr. Right and adopt a cat.

"I think four kids will be satisfactory, don't you?" Bongani asks, sliding a photo across the table, nearly knocking over my ice water in the process. I trusted my Spidey senses enough not to drink the wine he ordered me, and the picture of a family of six reinforces my decision to stay sober. In the photo, I'm on one side, Bongani on the other, and in between are four kids with eerily familiar faces and unsettling smiles. It's like something out of a horror show.

"What is this?"

"It's our family."

"Um, what?" My plan to slip away to the bathroom and climb out the window might be an underreaction considering how disturbing this photo is. This man is giving off serious serial killer vibes.

"Isn't it amazing what technology can do? With our combined genetics, our kids are going to be beautiful. Two boys. Two girls. I hope you don't mind, but I've already picked out their names."

"Bongi, look," I say.

"Bongani," he corrects me.

"Bongani Boy, this is just a first date, and there won't be a second, so-"

"I agree we don't need a second date. Best just to skip right to the good part, I always say. But save the Bongani Boy for the bedroom from now on. It turns me on."

My entire body shudders so fiercely my chair rattles.

I know I'll regret asking, but my desperate need to keep him distracted as I discreetly reach for my handbag beneath my chair and set it in my lap makes me do it anyway. "What's the good part?"

"The wedding night, of course."

Fuck, it's a good thing I wasn't taking a drink. I'd have choked on an ice cube. "You hardly know me. What makes you think you want to marry me?" Never mind that I definitely do not want to marry him.

"Oh, I know a lot about you," he says, the smug look he flashes me unnerving as hell. It suggests he knows something I don't, and it sounds the loudest alarm bells yet. My ears will ring permanently after this is all over. If I survive the night. "I know you have a degree in business management with a minor in art studies. That cum laude average is impressive. Of course, you won't need any of that once we're married."

"My degree wasn't on my dating profile." A chill races down my spine as I fish out my phone from the depths of my handbag. It's buried beneath God only knows what. But hey, at least there's pepper spray. That might come in handy later.

"I also know you worked at the pizza place in town for two years. Your experience will serve you well for how much time you'll be spending in the kitchen." He laughs. "See what I did there? Serve, because you were a server?"

"Funny," I deadpan.

I had that job during varsity, more than a decade ago. How the fuck does he know about that? That's the kind of detail that leaks out of data breaches and careless databases. Eish.

Careful to keep my attention as much on Bongani as possible to avoid suspicion, I hastily scroll through my contacts. I silently chastise myself for deleting my entire WhatsApp history to free up storage an hour before this disaster of a date — it would make sending this SOS to my bestie so much quicker. Instead, I'm forced to sort through my extensive list of contacts in search of the letter S.

"Do you still relief-teach art at the high school?" Bongani asks. "I couldn't find any recent work history on that, so I wasn't sure."

"Uh, no."

"Just as well," he says as I glance down at the screen in my lap. "We'll want to start on this family right away since your childbearing years are nearly behind you. Best if you don't have any extra commitments to distract you."

"Excuse me?"

"Please don't be offended. I'm actually happy you're thirty-four. I prefer a more mature woman."

I lied on my dating profile, of course. I hoped shaving a couple of years off would expand my options. Silly me, thinking the dating pool in my mid-thirties would be anything other than a cesspool. I shudder to think how Bongani found out my actual age.

Ah, there's the name I want to message: Sindi.

"Everything okay?" Bongani asks, eyebrows drawn in concern.

"Just looking for a breath mint," I lie, shoving my phone back to the bottom of my handbag.

"But you haven't touched your salad."

"I'm not really hungry."

Bongani seems to relax as he sits back, a knowing smile on his face. "Ah, I get it. You're nervous. That's cute."

Yoh. Fuck this guy.

It takes every ounce of restraint not to throw my untouched wine in his face and march out of the restaurant. But I'm not convinced he doesn't have my home address programmed into his map app.

Sindi, please hurry!

I'm tempted to send another message. Beg Sindi to bring her SAPS brother as backup. Hell, I'm tempted to ask her to bring both of her prop-forward-sized brothers. But because I stupidly kissed the other one this past Christmas and made things super awkward between us, I don't send the message.

To be fair, I'd helped myself to a little too much of Gogo's homemade eggnog that night. She makes hers extra potent, and I was having a rough patch. So naturally, I kissed my childhood crush as if that was a wise decision. Mandla and I have avoided each other ever since, which is hard to do in a dorpie this small, with families who constantly find reasons to get together.

"What are you thinking about?" Bongani asks, his gaze dropping to the edge of the table, as though he can see the handbag in my lap.

"Christmas," I say, forcing a smile.

"My favourite holiday," my date says, his slimy smile returning. "We'll host my mother, of course. She'll teach you how to properly prepare a Christmas dinner."

"What about my family?" It's a stupid question meant to stall for time, but I'm also morbidly curious how this arsehole factored my life into his chauvinistic, old-fashioned sitcom-dad fantasy.

"We can go to your Gogo's for Christmas Eve if that'll make you happy."

My blood runs cold.

I know for a fact I haven't mentioned Gogo, or any other family member for that matter, because Bongani hasn't let me get in ten words this whole fucking date.

"How do you know I call her that?"

"Lucky guess." He lifts his wine glass, winking at me before taking a sip.

"There you are," a deep, baritone voice announces, as though exasperated.

I freeze. I know that voice.

"Babe, I've been looking everywhere for you."

"Mandla?" I don't know whether to feel relieved or mortified. Did Sindi send him? Of course she did — she's out of town this weekend, three hundred kilometres away at her writing retreat in the Drakensberg. Fuck, how did I forget about that?

But why did she send the wrong brother?

Then again, my bestie doesn't know about that Christmas mistake, so of course she'd send whichever brother could get here fastest. To Mandla's credit, it was an impressively quick response time. Something that makes me feel better should Bongani decide to set fire to my house in retaliation, since Mandla would be the one showing up to put it out.

"Who are you exactly?" Bongani asks through gritted teeth.

Mandla ignores him, and that makes my date seethe. I bite back a grin.

"You've made your point, babe," Mandla says to me, those dark eyes boring into me, pleading for me to play along. It's the most eye contact we've shared since I laid a big wet one on him months ago. "You can stop trying to punish me by going on these fake dates and come home now."

"I thought you lived alone," Bongani says.

I push out of my chair, desperate to get as far away from this creep as possible. Shit. I might have to move.

"I hope you're ready to grovel, babe," I say to Mandla, playing along. Hoping Mandla will get the message and burn the AI-generated family portrait along with the whole dream he has about our future. I shudder again.

"If you want me on my knees, that's where I'll be," Mandla says, his tone laced with innuendo.

For half a second, I believe he means what he's saying. My nipples tingle in response at the image his words conjure. But of course, he's just playing a part.

"What's happening?" Bongani demands, his face turning a shade of tomato red.

"She's with me, pal."

"She doesn't want to go with you," Bongani spits. "She's here with me. We're not through with dinner. We have matters to discuss. A wedding to plan."

"Nothing to discuss. Definitely no wedding," I say, pressing my palm against Mandla's chest and gripping his shirt. Damn, that man is all hard muscle. Just in case Bongani doesn't get the message, I throw in, "I'm going with him. The makeup sex is out of this world. Sorry I lied — I hate salad."

"What the hell is this—"

"Lose her number or you'll have to deal with me," Mandla warns, curling his arm protectively around the small of my back and leading me out of the restaurant.